American Resolutions
by HazelHibiscus
Summary: The wish of America: to not be called lazy, stupid and fat. His new year's resolution is to fix all those issues, but will he go too far? country names used, eventual Americest (serious!smart!anorexic!America)
1. Intro

Hiya~ so apparently I did come up with an idea, here ya go!

America's Resolutions are the normal ones for him: serious, smart and thin. This is just the intro chapter of this story.

Warnings: cursing, anorexia/ bulimia, and Americest

Disclaimers: I don't own hetalia, but I own the plot (to some degree)

* * *

Bloody_ hell! You stupid git!_

_Ohonhon Amerique, I can see you growing fatter by the minute!_

_Gott dammit Amerika! Why can't you pay attention!_

_You used to just be a fat ass, hamburger bastard, but now you're fucking huge!_

* * *

"That's it!" America yelled, yanking off his tie and throwing it down on his hotel bed. "I hate that nobody takes me seriously! Always calling me stupid and _fat_!"

As he stomped towards the little balcony, he pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jacket pocked before discarding it on the floor. Breathing in the cold Swedish air, America flicked the lighter open, letting the small flame warm his cheeks. "Maybe it will melt the fucking fat away," he muttered, before spinning a cigarette around his fingers and lighting it.

"Fem! Fyra! Tre! Två! Ett! (5! 4! 3! 2! 1!) Gott Nytt År! (happy new year)" the crowd bellow America yelled, as huge fireworks erupted from the rooftops. Bright blues, yellows, reds, purples, and oranges colored the midnight sky.

"Happy New Year," America murmured. "I've always neglected to make or follow through with my resoluions… This time I won't fail. Starting this year, for now and forever, I won't be America the lazy, the stupid, and the fat. I will be America the focused, the smart, and the thin. I will be America the beautiful again!"

* * *

O beautiful for spacious skies  
For amber waves of grain  
For purple mountain majesties  
Above the fruited plain!  
America! America!  
God shed His grace on thee,  
And crown thy good  
With brotherhood  
From sea to shining sea!

-America the Beautiful


	2. Making the Hurt Small

Beta: my Sunflower (an irl friend) but if something's screwy, it's my fault cause I don't always listen to her

* * *

Tears crept out of the corners of America's eyes as he pushed the small sandwich past his lips. Wincing as he ate, it rubbed the inside of his abused throat raw. God, he hated this so much. He sometimes tried to eat, to choke down food, but he ended up just throwing it up minutes after consumption.

_Stupid… fat… unworthy…._ The insults kept running through America's mind, tripping over each other in their haste to be at the forefront of his thoughts, as he sat with his head in his hands. The American started shaking, the pressure in his head making him keen in pain. Suddenly, he jumped up and flung his kitchen table across the room. The table somersaulted, splintering and turning to dust on impact.

At the abrupt movement, America could feel the sandwich he ate slouch around inside his stomach. With a loud gagging sound, he slammed a hand over his mouth to keep the offending food trapped inside until he reached the bathroom. Scrambling across the slate floor, the golden blonde nearly lost his meal in his dash to the toilet. He clutched the seat so hard that cracks started to form as he retched. His sick, non-digested bread dribbled out over his lips and barely made it into the toilet, as little beads of sweat broke out over his brow.

Wiping his mouth with a tissue and flushing the toilet, America laid on the floor with his head pressed into the cool tiles. His throat still burned and constricted painfully as he swallowed and panted. _Fuck, I was doing so good... only eating a cracker or two when I absolutely had to. Why did I eat that damn sandwich? I should know better by now._

Slowly dragging his tired body off the delightfully refreshing floor, the American turned on the shower. He didn't wait for the water to warm up before he jumped in. Being cold burns calories after all.

America's teeth chattered, as he stood in the shower, broad hands running over his scarred skin and body. His frame was already so different than it was when he started six months ago. His bones were easy to feel underneath his slowly weakening muscles; they were easier to feel than was probably healthy. But America didn't care about what was healthy, all he wanted was the other nations to stop mocking him, and he felt that now, he was closer to success.

He was still strong, but it wasn't the same super-human strength he once enjoyed. No one who fought the American would ever know the difference, but the golden blonde could feel it.

Madame President kept asking why the country's food supply was low lately. Though America figured the issue might be the fault of his… condition, but he couldn't break himself of the habit. The moment the jeers stopped pounding through his head, the golden blonde would stop, but that hadn't happened yet.

* * *

America had been surprising distant from everyone for the past several months. Some were thankful to not be bothered by the American, but Canada was concerned. His twin hadn't pounded on his door in the middle of the night scared over some horror movie or to play/watch sports together or have snowball fights.

But then again, Canada was a worrier. How many times had the Canadian run over to the American's house, fearful that something bad had occurred, when the American was just holed up in his basement playing the latest video game from Japan? Many times was the answer. Every time, America would just wrap the fretting Canadian in a hug and ruffled his wavy hair with a "you're so cute when you worry, Mattie," and give his trademark Hollywood smile. The Canadian hated that dishonest smile; it wasn't America's real grin.

Walking into the DC apartment building, Canada was stopped by a tiny old woman with a stooped back and a hobbling step. She grabbed his arm in a steely grip, and yanked the Canadian down to her eye level.

"You Alfred's twin?" she asked with narrowed eyes.

"Y-yeah?"

"I'm Amie Carson; I live in the apartment below Alfred. The boy is worrying me lately. Hardly ever plays his annoying _hip-hop_ or _rap_ music anymore," she spat slightly at the mention of these so-called horrors. Concern returning to her eyes, Mrs. Carson continued, "Doesn't leave his apartment for days on end. I can hear him throwing stuff around, breaking it while he screams and sobs. You're his twin, so fix him." Teetering away with a small scowl, she left the wide-eyed Canada standing in the building's vestibule.

_Merde, Al's neighbor is creepy, and I hope to God that she's wrong about him,_ Canada thought, as he flew up the stairs.

"Al?" the Canadian whisper-yelled into the apartment. "Are you here?" There was no answer. Canada slipped into the apartment, carefully looking around in case –God, he hoped this was the case- America planned to surprise and scare the shit out of him.

The apartment wasn't like it normally was, all full of light and laughter. It was cold, as though nobody lived it any longer, even though there were clear signs of life like the half-eaten yogurt on the counter and the partially nibbled on carrot. Those weren't signs that _America_ lived in the apartment though, Canada knew that the American wouldn't be caught dead eating healthy 'rabbit food' as the southern twin called it.

There was only one light on in the entire apartment: the light in the study. All the countries knew the American avoided his working at all costs. The desk lamp only needed a new light bulb every thirty years because of how little America used it.

Upon entering the room, Canada was greeted with a terrifying sight. The golden blonde's nose was in a book, and not just any book but a language-learning guide for German. At a slight rap on the ajar door from Canada, the American looked up. There was an oddly serious look plastered to his face, as he held the book aloft. There was little expression in the southern twin's eyes; perhaps a flicker of anguish danced behind his dulled blue orbs.

"Hallo, Mattie. Wie geht es dir? (Hello, how are you?)" America asked, hollow voiced.

"Al? What's wrong?" Canada asked warily, as he walked into the study. "You seem different."

A brief smile filled America's face before he remembered his newly serious nature and replaced it with a nearly glaring mask that even Germany would find disconcerting. "So you can already tell I'm different? Good, great really. I've been trying so hard…" the American said, walking around his desk to lean against it directly in front of the Canadian. They were only a foot apart, but it felt like miles between them.

"Alfred… what's different now?" Canada murmured, reaching out and brushing his fingertips against America's cheek. It was unusually cool, scarily cool.

"I'm changing, Mattie; I'm getting better. When I'm done, you won't be embarrassed to be my twin any more," a vague smile flickered across his face, as he took the Canadians' hand. "I'm more focused; I'm turning in my paperwork on time. And I'm getting smarting- I'm learning all the major languages in my country again. I'm losing all that weight too! Nobody can call me fat now."

Suddenly reaching out, America grabbed Canada and crushed him to his chest. "You'll be proud of me, Mattie. You'll be as happy to be my twin as I am to be yours," he whispered.

"But Al… I'm already glad to be your twin-" the Canadian started before he was roughly pushed away.

"Don't you dare fucking lie to me!" America snarled. Grabbing Canada's shoulders again, America's fingers dug into his skin, leaving crescent-moon dents in his skin that nearly bled as he continued speaking in an abruptly desperate tone, "I need you to be proud of me eventually. I know you aren't now, and you shouldn't be yet, but someday you will be."

Something was clearly wrong with his twin, and the Canadian was planning to stay until he fixed it. "Can I spend the night?" Canada asked cautiously; "I don't have anywhere else to go…"

"Of course, I'll make your bed up in a moment," America said. With a slight sigh and a longing look, he put a bookmark in his text.

Walking calmly –that worried Canada; his twin should dash everywhere- over the closet, the golden blonde pulled out some pale green sheets. America always gave his twin sheets of his favorite color when he slept over. It's nice to know that even though everyone forgets his name, the American goes so far as to remember that the Canadian's favorite color is green.

Watching his twin's back as he reached to the top shelf for a pillow, Canada noticed that America's clothing wasn't hanging on his body quite right. The clothes were… a bit big, draping fairly loosely over his frame. The Canadian vaguely remember that shirt being snug on his southern twin before.

Making the bed together was a strangely silent affair. The only noises were the rustle of sheets and the sounds of the northern twin taking deep breaths in preparation to speak even so he didn't say anything. Leaving as silently as he left, America only stopped to press a quick kiss into his northern twin's cheek. Canada was conscious of the trail of cigarette smoke the American left in his wake.

* * *

Two weeks into his stay, and Canada still didn't know exactly what the fuck was wrong with his twin. Don't think the Canadian wasn't trying to understand; he was, but America wouldn't let him into his head. Every time he tried to ask what's up or how are you or anything, all the northern twin would receive were one worded answers or a shrug.

During his stay, Canada figured out only one problem of his southern twin: he knew America was quickly falling into acute anorexia. The normally insatiable American avoided eating at all costs now, and sometimes poked at his stomach in the mirror when he thought the Canadian wasn't watching. He also nearly always had a cigarette between his teeth, breaking his personnel rule of never smoking in the house.

Awaking bleary eyed from a deep sleep, Canada pressed the heel of his palm into his forehead, as he tried to think of what the hell could have woken him up at three in the morning. Just as he started to drift back to sleep, the Canadian swore he heard quiet whimpers accompanied by near silent splattering.

Pulling himself out of the bed, Canada stumbled around the apartment, looking for his twin. "Alfred, oh dieu (god)!" he yelped, rushing to America's side to brush back and hold his hair, as the southern twin threw up bile and scraps of what could be chicken.

"I just got so damn hungry… I'm so sorry, Mattie," the American gasped between dry heaves.

"Al, there is nothing to be sorry about. What on earth are you sorry about?" the northern twin asked, eyebrows furrowed in concern, as he drug his fingers through his southern twin's hair.

"Please don't be ashamed of me; I'll do better next time. I won't be weak again," America begged, rocking back to lean against Canada's legs. Rolling his head back, the American looked up at his twin with a flicker of fear in his eyes. "You won't leave me, will you?"

"Alfred, why would I ever leave you? We're twins, that means we stick together, eh?"

Grabbing the northern twin's hand, America pulled Canada down to the ground to face him. Their noses were mere inches apart when the American begged, "Please sleep with me like when we were little. I need you, Mattie."

Combing his fingers through his twin's hair, Canada spoke in a low, calming voice, "Oui, Al, I'll sleep with you. Just brush your teeth, and we can go to bed."

Sliding beneath the sheets, their legs tangled together, bringing them close. They were nose to nose, the American's breath curled around the other's jawbone and the Canadian's breath rustled through his twin's hair. America's arms wrapped around Canada's waist, and his face pressed into his twin's neck, quietly sobbing. At each shallow, gasping breath, the Canadian tightened his grip around his twin's shoulders. "Shh, Al, it's going to be okay. I'm going to stay here until you're okay."

_I'm going to figure out what's wrong with you,_ the southern twin thought, as he stroked America's hair. _And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make you better._

"Don't tell Arthur or Francis about this," America whispered in between sniffles.

"Are you sure? They might be able to help."

"No, they'll use it to make fun of me more. Please don't, Mattie, _please_."

Pausing for a long while, Canada sighed. "...Okay Al, I won't tell them-" _until it gets really bad, and knowing Al and his stubbornness, it will._

* * *

You made your hurt small  
Constricted and compact;  
Not easy to see,  
Or once seen, to look at.

-You Made Your Hurt Small: Think Again


	3. Some Sorrows

So I have the feeling that some of you want to shoot me for taking so long... I know if I was following this story I would be seriously annoyed with the author for not having updated sooner, so I'm really sorry! But here's my excuse: first mid-year exams + ridiculously difficult classes + type A personalities (my beta and me) + story chapters being longer than intended + a slow beta (sunflower does have a life afterall) + an OCD writer (ME!) who _has_ to post on Saturdays or possibly Fridays + other random shit (ie, life)= a late chapter! Now that my poor math is done, onto the chapter!**  
**

**And thanks to the many people who faved, reviewed, and followed the story! It warmed my heart every single time I got an email, and turned this into my most popular story yet, even though there was barely any of it to enjoy! Now proceed to the actual story instead of just my ranting and immense thanks ^.^**

* * *

"Mattie…" America murmured in his twin's ear. "Mattie, wake up. We've got to get on our flight to the Conference."

Groaning loudly, Canada flipped over and covered his head with the pillow. However, that did nothing to help; the southern twin just spoke louder, beginning to poke him. Popping up like a shot, the northern twin wacked the American over the head before covering his ears with his pillow again.

The bed shifted slightly, and Canada vainly prayed America would just leave him alone. The northern twin let out a 'manly' shriek when the southern twin slung him over his shoulder and dumped him unceremoniously on a trunk.

With an expectant look, the American tossed the Canadian a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, the southern twin beginning to dress for the flight as well. "We need to get ready; the plane leaves in two hours."

"Two hours!?" Canada spoke with a sleepy edge to his voice. Glancing at the clock, he confirmed that it was in fact _seven thirty in the morning_, which for most people that wasn't early, but for the North American twins that really was fucking early! "What the hell, Al? Couldn't I have slept for another half-hour?"

"Non, si tu fais, nous avons être retard (No, if you do, we will be late). Get ready," America lightly snapped before leaving the room. That was a slap to the face for Canada. He'd been doing all he could to comfort and satisfy the American, yet the southern twin still snarled at him every time he was displeased, which was often.

Looking guilty, America wandered back, handing Canada a black coffee generously infused with maple syrup. The Canadian flushed hotly as the southern twin gave a small, apologetic kiss on the cheek.

It was stupid, unbearably stupid how in love Canada was with his twin. It doesn't matter whom he was with, America always tormented the Canadian in the back of his mind. When he dreamed at night, he saw America's face. When Canada was around his southern twin, he laughed more, was louder, and just more noticeable. When the American was gone, the Canadian would slide down into a depression of sorts. He would move through the world like a ghost, absorbed into his morose thoughts. Now, the nation he loved so much was slowly killing himself, and killing Canada along with him.

The Canadian suppressed this extra affection for years, for decades. Actually, he can't remember a time where he wasn't at least slightly enamored with his sexy twin who commanded attention.

"You're up anyway," America reasoned, blowing out a puff of smoke that swirled around the Canadian, making him cough. "Let's just leave." Dragging his pre-packed suitcase behind him, Canada followed the American out to the curb to hail a taxi to the Dulles International Airport.

* * *

"Shit!" America yelled, breaking his attitude of self-control and reverting back to his normal reactions. "Fuck, Mattie! This is why we arrive at the airport early!" he continued, dragging a stressed out Canada to their reassigned gate on the opposite side of the airport.

"How was I supposed to know your airports are screwed up, unpredictable and don't run on time?"

"I'm not Fascist Italy(*1)! My damn trains don't run on time, and my planes sure as hell don't!"

Finally finding their plane minutes before takeoff, Canada started to doze off in his seat, hoping to sleep a bit before they landed in Heathrow, England.

America softly squeezed the Canadian's hand to keep him awake while he spoke. "Sorry for snapping at you, Mattie. I should know that you're just trying to help. Thanks for putting up with me."

The northern twin cracked open an amethyst orb. "You know I liked you the way you were before; I respected you."

"Perhaps," the southern twin agreed. "But nobody else did."

With a sigh of defeat, Canada closed his eyes and fell asleep to the rhythm of America stroking his hair.

* * *

Canada didn't awake from his desperately needed sleep as they disembarked from the plane. He didn't regain consciousness while America carried him bridal style through the terminal. The Canadian wasn't roused by the blaring alarms that signaled their bags had arrived at the carousel. He didn't stir in the slight chill of a late English summer as they waited for a tax or as they drove to the hotel.

America didn't mind the strange looks he received, carrying his twin –through some people saw only a shimmer held protectively in his arms- and dragging a Canadian and American flag-designed suitcases. Canada would do anything for his American, and the southern twin would do anything for his northern half.

It was ten at night in England. Even though it only felt like five in the evening to them, Canada was already dead asleep. After the cruel awakening America was forced to give the Canadian earlier, he thought it was better to just leave the northern twin alone. Nearly ripping Canada's suitcase apart in his search for clothes, America removed a pair of green pajama pants. As he sat behind Canada and gently propped his northern twin up against his broad chest, the Canadian's head kept flopping around, making him look like an adorable baby-doll. So as the not disturb his twin, America mindfully tugged Canada's shirt up over his head.

Unconsciously, America looked around the hotel room, his re-found paranoia acting up. Focusing back onto his beautiful twin, the American trailed his fingertips up and down his narrow waist. Splaying his fingers over Canada's flat stomach, a slight shiver ran through America's body at the chill radiating from his twin's skin. With a sigh, the southern twin pressed a caring kiss to the corner of his twin's mouth. Shucking the rest of the Canadian clothes off and re-dressing him chastely before he tucked his twin under the sheets and slipped next to him in bed.

Immediately, Canada snuggled next to his southern twin and murmured something that faintly sounded like "Je t'aime (I love you)." But the American wasn't sure, for he was already halfway to the heavy clutches of sleep. For all he knew, the phrase was simply a part of his euphoric dreams.

* * *

**Beep! Beep! Beep!**

While Canada stirred at the pestering noise of America's cell alarm, what really jarred him out of dreamland was the _lack_ of a bang. Regardless of the situation, if the American were rudely awoken, the thing waking him would get automatically destroyed: thrown against a wall or hit with a heavy fist without consideration for the object's value. Even if the object happened to be a person, such as his perfectly nice twin.

"Conference…" America murmured sleepily into his twin's ear. "Forty minutes… You want first shower…?"

Comically falling out of bed, Canada stumbled tiredly over to his suitcase, looking for one of his three ties. All were gifts from France given to the Canadian with the statement: "I will eat _Angleterre's_ cooking before I let your poor lumberjack fashion take over!" Generally he attempted to put some thought into how he looked, but today the northern twin was more focused on how he _smelled_. Ever since he started staying with America, Canada couldn't get the smell of cigarettes out of his clothes. Their scent –one the Canadian now associated with suffering- clung to everything with an iron grip.

After their ten-minute showers, Canada spent the next twenty minutes trying to convince America to finally eat something but to no avail. He didn't bother to offer the unhealthy foods America used to love such as bacon (*2), but the total rejection of even the healthiest cereals further perturbed the Canadian.

"You need to eat, Al," Canada exclaimed, as he scarfed down his breakfast of pancakes smothered in maple syrup. America wouldn't even look at the northern twin or his food; his eyes were averted towards the busy street outside the café.

"No thanks, Mattie. I'm drinking a coffee instead of just water," America said, raising his cup and giving it a shake; his eyes were still stuck on the view through the window. "And I'll smoke another cig, so I'll be fine."

"Fine's not the word I'd use," Canada sighed, as he glanced down at his watch. "Merde! We've got to go; the meeting just stated."

"Tell everyone I'll be up in a few; I'm going to go take a smoke." As he walked away, America added to himself, "And I wanted to make a good impression on everyone…"

Just as Germany stood to call everyone's attention, Canada came flying in the door, eyes rolling around in a panic, as he searched for France and England.

Steeling himself and taking a deep breath, Canada yelled at a shockingly normal level, "France! England!" Everyone jumped or shrieked –Italy let out a blood curing scream- since they didn't see the Canadian until he spoke. Continuing at a lower register, Canada said, "I need to talk to you guys."

"Bloody hell lad! What are you yelling about?" England yelped, his huge eyebrows furrowing.

"'ush mon amour," France chided, his hand momentarily touching the Briton's waist before they were thrown off by a red-faced England. "What is ze problem?"

"Al's… not the same," the Canadian stated, rushing over to whisper into the Briton's and Frenchman's ears. "I just wanted to warn you before you saw him. You'll see what's wrong as soon as you look at him."

"Petit frère, you are worrying us."

"It should."

With a thumping sound and a rush of warm air from the hallway, America entered the meeting room in total silence. To the nearby nations who somehow noticed, the sound of his dress shoes clicking on the linoleum floor highlighted the abnormal silence that was so different from his normal yell of: "the hero is here!"

"Greatest apologies for being late, Germany," America stated with a nod, as he pulled out his notebook and black pen. "What presentations did I miss?"

"Ah, nothing Amerika. We have yet to start."

"After twenty minutes?" America asked with raised eyebrows. "That's strange; I would have thought between you and England this meeting would run on time…"

Both Germany and England flushed at admonishment from the long considered childish nation. All the nations openly gaped at the usually cheerful American's disdainful attitude. Flipping open his notebook and jotting down the date in strangely neat handwriting. "England, do you plan on starting this meeting?" America asked sharply, fixing the Brit with a cold stare.

"Err, okay," England blinked, looking a bit like a startled rabbit. "The major focus of this October meeting is pollutants. We will go over and discuss the advancements made in various renewable energy resources as well as their pros and cons. In addition, we will figure out how to provide funds for the poorer countries, so they may develop their own renewables."

The meeting went as all the meetings do- to utter shit. Even back when America was still 'stupid,' nothing escaped his watchful eye. He just never commented on the things he noticed, but this was the first time America ever watched the discord of them unfold without actually being a part of the chaos. Leaning back in his chair and thoughtfully taping the pen to his lips, the American observed the mini-fights that broke out, representing the current world affairs.

Turkey and Greece stood, hands wrapped around each other's throats while Japan struggled to break the taller men's death grips. England chased France round and round the meeting table, attempting to force-feed the Frenchman a burnt scone in retribution for insulting the Briton's cooking. Spain was attempting to feed Romano bites of tomato; the later only complying sans curses after receiving a sharp tug to his wayward curl. Somehow during the meeting, Italy squirmed his way into Germany's lap, stealing quick kisses from the embarrassed German when nobody seemed to be watching. The normally terrifying Russian that could normally be found smiling happily at the unfolding violence was hiding under the table from a frantically searching Belarus.

Slowly standing, America tightened his cobalt tie, emanating a dark aura that rivaled Russia's infamous vibe and earning a worried look from his twin. Taking a deep breath, the golden blonde pounded the table with his fist. A deep fissure ran through it, as a sound akin to booming thunder reverberated through the room, silencing everyone.

"It is completely unacceptable for all of you to squabble like children!" America growled. Everyone looked as though they wished to sink through the floor at his reprimands. The nations stopped fighting or kissing or chasing, slinking back to their seats. "All of you represent powerful nations, and it is your duty to behave as such. Now are we going to discuss major issues, or are we going to fight and never fix the world?

"Germany, I believe you are scheduled to make your speech on clean energy right now. Ob du Italien wohl so lange von deinem Schoß verbannen könntest? (Can you get Italy off your lap long enough to do so?(*3))" The golden blonde barked, sounding like the German usually did at moments such as this.

Looking as though he was slapped in the face, Germany slid a pouting Italy off his lap and walked jerkily to podium. As he spoke about his country's strides in clean energy, the German's eyes periodically jumped to the disturbingly focused and sharp-tongued American. Even the most focused nations could not keep their thoughts on the proceedings of the meeting in favor of openly gaping and gossiping about America's drastic change.

At 12:20, after nearly a half-hour of silent begging of silent begging from Italy, Romano stood up with exasperated if not slightly fearful expression somewhat directed at America. "Alright multi-culture bastards, Feliciano's been giving me pathetic-ass starving puppy looks, and I'm fucking hungry too. So if _dictator_ America is okay with this, can we take a fucking lunch break?"

A contemptuous smile graced the American's lips as he slowly shook his head. "I am not the proctor. England officially runs this meeting and Germany informally, as he always does." Exposing his palms and shrugging his shoulders, fingers spread wide, America continued, "If England nor Germany has any objections…?"

"Everyone meet back here in an hour," Germany nodded.

A hesitant hand landed on America's shoulder, making him look up. "Francis found a café he's deemed 'relatively edible'. Do you and…. err…. Canada want to join us for lunch?" England asked, fearful of irking this new America.

Quickly glancing over to Canada, the northern twin gave a swift nod of confirmation. America hoped he wouldn't; he didn't want to have to sit through a tempting lunch. Regardless of what he along with other nations said, the American really did enjoy English cooking.

"Of course, when do I refuse a meal?" America said giving a stiff if slightly awkward smile.

As the twins walked out the door, trailing after their bickering ex cartakers –"Non Arthur! I just said your food would _nearly_ kill me, not actually kill me." "You bloody wanker!"- Canada took America's hand in his own, threading their fingers together while they walked.

"Oh wow, I can see why France likes this place! An authentic French café in the middle of London, eh?" Canada said, tugging on their connected arms when the four nations arrived at the restaurant.

"Yeah it looks good," the southern twin agreed. Keeping his eyes on England and France's backs, he lowered his voice before continuing to speak. "Mattie, they're going to notice if I don't eat. They'll know something's… different."

"You could tell them; get some help, eh?" the Canadian asked with a small smile. Upon a quick shake of the head from the American, the smile quickly turned sad. "Didn't that earthquake in California a few days ago make you sick? You could say you're just still feeling nauseous." Squeezing his hand, America gave a quick grin in thanks that only served to make Canada feel as though he was inevitably harming his twin, rather than helping.

"Ah, 'ow the French cuisine can even improve English cooking!" France announced, arms spread wide as though announcing an amazing performance. "Madame, a table for four."

The American, the Canadian, and the Englishman had only just opened their menus before the Frenchman had already called the waiter back over to the table.

"Bonjour monsieur, first some escargots de Bourgogne for mon amour-" France started before England cut in.

"Wanker. I would like a shepard's pie."

"Crêpe with ham and cheese."

"Pot au feu (beef stew), s'il vous plaît," the Frenchman finished with a lusty wink as he slowly looked over the young waiter's body, earning him a punch from England. "Attendez (wait), Alfred, you did not order. What will you 'ave?"

"Umm, I-I'm good. The earthquakes in California made me sick," America said with a stutter and wide eyes.

"Oh, le pauvre (poor(*4)). Get carrot soup; it is great for upset stomachs," he said, patting the American's hand.

As they ate and spoke of insignificant topics, everyone watched America take his hesitant spoonfuls, growing greener with every swallow. After nearly half his soup was consumed, the American jumped up, his chair tumbling behind him. Cheeks puffed out, eyes glassy, America dashed to the bathroom, nearly tripping over other customers in his dash.

The moment the the American was out of earshot, England slammed his hands on the table, Canada snapping to attention. "Don't lie to us, lad; something's wrong with your twin."

"Oui, petit frère. Everyone at the meeting could tell something was wrong with America," France added, fixing the Canadian with an uncharacteristically intense look.

"He's… sick. That's all," Canada said hesitantly.

"Bollocks! Did you hear him during the meeting? He was snapping at everyone, keeping the meeting running well, making bloody _fools_ out of us… There's more to it," England stated, seizing the northern twin's shoulders in a tight grip.

Canada looked down suddenly, breaking the eye contact. He was never a good liar. "There is…. But I can't tell you."

"S'il vous plaît?" France begged. "We can all tell it's bad. He hasn't been the same in months."

"How would any of you know?" the Canadian snapped, immediately defense of his twin. "You guys were happy when he stopped 'bothering' you so much. But it hasn't gotten bad enough for me to betray him. You'll figure it out by the time it gets really bad, and if you don't, you guys don't care about him enough to know."

* * *

Some sorrows are like vitiligo

Which never go.

Some sorrows are like blisters of burn

Which cure very slow.

-Some Sorrows: Madhav Sarkunde

* * *

*1 So apparently it _was_ Mussolini, but I originally thought it was Hitler (sorry, my immediate historical knowledge of random facts is only half-assed at best) thank you HI and another guest for correcting me!

*2 Fun Fact: bacon was one of my first words (BAACCOOONNNN!)

*3 Thank you Selia for fixing my (absolutely terrible) German.

*4 I learned the word in French class during our sickness unit (like going to the doctor and describing your symptoms and crap), and I took it to mean something like when people say "poor you" in English when someone's sick or hurting in someway. Someone _please_ correct me if that's wrong. *edit* Thank you Katianne for confirming this and correcting it slightly.

On a side note, my beta did in fact jump down my throat for calling America and Canada twins; she's like the frickin' canon police!


	4. Seasons of Snow

**I know anyone following this story before 9 February received an email saying this chapter came out on the 9th, and I posted it like 3 times, but it just didn't appear on the site. I'm really sorry about that.**

**A/N:** Finding all the dang quotes and poems for these chapters is getting difficult and possibly less and less relevant each time, but I am determined for all the chapters to have one! (OCD very much...) Anyways, if any of you fabulous readers have any suggestions or good people to look up for inspirational poems or quotes, _please_ tell me. (I'm like totally on my knees begging right now)

* * *

Lying on his bed, the American flicked a baseball in the air with one hand while the other trailed over his finally concave stomach. A tiny smile graced his lips. _I'm doing well, but as England says, there's always room for improvement_.

Tossing the rest of the heavy covers off, the American tugged on a sweatshirt and a pair of thick smartwool socks. His temperature seemed to change to match what parts of his country were being focused on in the news or where he was staying at the time. If there was an oil spill in Alaska during the winter, the American would be freezing, but if there was a blackout in Mississippi during the summer, he'd be burning. Regardless, every since he lost all that weight, the American couldn't stay warm.

Holding his lighter close to the cigarette, its tip flared, a puff of smoke enveloping America's head, as he walked into his office.

After double checking his email and then the fax machine for more paperwork from Madame President and receiving none, America found himself looking at his hands without anything to do. The golden blonde's eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards the swirling snow that fell from late-December DC sky, practically begging him to go for a walk.

Going over to his closet, America yanked off his sweatshirt in favor of his heavy winter coat and boots. As he walked out the apartment building, the American walked straight into Amie Carson.

Stumbling, he didn't have a chance to catch himself before the little old woman grabbed him.

"Alfred F. Jones! Why haven't you visited me in the past few weeks? I thought you fancy-smancy government job must have sent you to another country," she admonished.

"Prostite G-zha Carson (sorry, Mrs)," he blushed, finding himself yanked down to eyelevel with the tiny women.

"Boy, why do you have to greet me ten different ways to Sunday? You know perfectly well I speak only English."

"Sorry Mrs. Carson; force of habit."

"Still trying to prove you're smart to your co-workers? When you going to show them?"

"Ah, yes ma'am, but no I have not. We have a meeting in a few days."

She quickly raked her eyes over America's body like a worried mother scrutinizing a son that no longer lived under her roof. "You're getting thin, boy; I'm going to have to have feed you a proper meal soon… But based on that green look you've got going on, I'm guessing you're sick… Make sure you talk to your twin if you're having problems, even I can tell he care a lot," she concluded, giving him a long, hard look.

"Yes Mrs. Carson, will do," America said, giving her an uncomfortable smile and reclaiming his arm from her.

* * *

Snow crunched under his heavy footfalls, as America walked the trails that winded through his beloved capital. It was cold, far below freezing, so the golden blonde rarely saw other walkers or runners. If he did, they would greet the other and shoot what the other nations called 'shit grins', specific only to Americans. Sure the Canadians were friendly too, but it was only in America were those big smiles were thought of as false.

The golden blond hated how the other nations disliked his unconditional affability, provided you hadn't crossed him as so far. And yet, America preferred faked good nature above the looks that screamed 'what the fuck are you doing in my country' and 'go the hell away' he and whomever dared to call themselves American received outside his borders. But, he abhorred it even more when his citizens gave such looks to other Americans who didn't live in their regions… Why couldn't his people get along? The golden blonde understood why other countries didn't particularly like he or his people -he had done terrible things in the not-so-distant past- but Americans should be able to get along with other Americans. States should be able to work together without one threatening to secede from him...

A shiver running through him, America suddenly halted his brisk walking. The sun looked far deeper in the sky than when he started; how long had he been out? Spinning his now limply hanging watch –a gift from Japan with a thousand different functions America had yet to figure out- around his wrist, a faded 5:46 blinked back at him. Four and a half hours then.

It always seems to be the case that once one recognizes they're cold the chill will not leave. The cold, like hungry bears chases at their heels, their breath quickening with every pound of the huge footsteps and clicks of deadly claws no matter how fast one tries to run away. Each bite, each slash, each shiver slows the freezing soul down until they're barely plodding along. Until it is nearly impossible to put one foot in front of another.

America was tired; he was so, so exhausted. Looking around, the golden blonde saw a small alcove made by either a small tree or a large bush; he didn't care to know which. _I'll just rest for a little bit, _America thought, crouching down, crawling under the small braches, and resting against the plant's base.

Sitting there, the cold crept into his skin, sinking into his bones until he couldn't feel anything. Eyes fluttering shut and head sinking to his chest, America murmured aloud, "Just for a moment, I'll be up in a moment," before sinking into a deep, hypothermia induced sleep.

* * *

An unidentifiable amount of time later, America groggily awoke, unable to figure out what had roused him. As his iPhone started ring its xylophone tone again, the golden blonde fumbled around with his coat, trying desperately to open his pocket with unresponsive fingers. Just before the call went to voice mail, he somehow managed to answer it.

"'lo?" America asked thickly, unable to fully form the greeting.

"Oh mon dieu! Thank _god_ you picked up!" Canada gasped into the phone. "This is the third time I've called. You weren't here to pick Arthur or Francis from the airport, and you weren't at home when I got back from a meeting at my embassy, and then you wouldn't pick up your calls, so we called your boss, and she didn't know where you were either. Al, where the maple are you?!"

"Umm, I don't know," America answered groggily, barely remember anything. "I went for a walk on some trails... I was out for a really long time... I just got so cold and tired... I sat down for a second..."

There was the sound of a scuffle on the other side of the phone. A mixed cacophony of French and English came through the line, as three worried countries fought over Canada's phone.

"You bloody git! Where the hell are you? We've been searching and making phone call after fucking phone call and we still can't find you!" England yelled, vainly attempting to mask his concern with anger.

"It's my favorite trail near my house... Can't remember what it's called... Mattie should know which."

After a brief consultation and an exclamation of "Oui, je sais! (yes, I know)" from Canada, France started speaking into the phone.

"Alfred, you must stay awake. I 'ave fought wars in ze cold where nearly all my soldiers died. (*1) Though zis is not as bad, it could kill a human and will 'urt you," France said seriously.

"But I'm getting sleepy again..." America whispered, eyes falling heavily shut again.

"Non! Ne fais-toi (no you don't)," France snapped, hoping a sharper voice would jar the American awake. "Alfred? Alfred!" he yelled, receiving no answer. Turning to his wide-eyed companions, the Frenchman told them. "We 'ave to find 'im now; 'e is not going to wake up."

* * *

The snow fell faster now, blurring the searching nations' views and nearly concealing the unconscious teen under the bush. America's eyes were closed, slumped against the bush completely unmoving, but the golden blond could vaguely hear people call his name. America tried to pull himself out of the dark haze of General Winter, but he just didn't have the energy or willpower.

The voices were closer now. America could discern the three different accents piercing the frozen air. Just as heard the Canadian accent approach his resting place, the golden blonde somehow managed to croak out a faint "Mattie…?" before falling silent.

Canada's tendency to walk alone in the untamed wilderness gave him very attuned hearing, yet he could barely hear the whisper that fell from America's lips. Slamming to a stop, the northern twin's head snapped towards the bush, just barely seeing a shock of gold behind the snow covered leaves. Crouching down and pushing the branches aside, the Canadian saw his southern twin. The American's eyes were closed; hair white with snow and ice; skin tinted the blue his eyes normally held; small icicles replaced his long, golden lashes; and his lips a pale purple that would be pretty if not for the danger the color signified.

Rubbing a careful thumb over America frozen cheek, two slivers of blue appeared. "M-Mattie?" the southern twin whispered thickly. "I-I'm s-so cold."

Canada yanked off his scarf and wound it around the American's throat. Tugging off his hat, his curl was accidentally brushed, and the Canadian blushed brightly, as heat flooded to his groin. Getting flustered, Canada huffed before jamming the hat on the half-dead American's head. Letting out a quiet moan, America scooted closer to the warmth his northern twin radiated, stiff fingers just barely fisting his northern twin's heavy jacket.

Sliding America out from under the bush and slipping an arm under his southern twin's bent legs and another around his back, the Canadian lifted the American up. Not all of America's super strength bled into his northern twin, but just enough had to make him one of the stronger nations. Though it didn't matter now; the American was so light that any nation would have the strength to carry him.

"Francis! Arthur!" the Canadian called to the snow covered and searching Europeans, their heads jerking up in his direction. "I found Al!"

Running so fast their legs nearly left their bodies behind, England and France dashed to their not-so-little ex-charges, as snow kicked up around their feet. Legs sinking deep into the drifts, they flew through the woods, disregarding the trail in favor for the direct route through the forest.

Gathering around the slightly responsive America, England rubbed and blew warm air on the chilled cheeks, as France laced his fingers with his, dealing light butterfly kisses to the gloved hands. Quickly finishing their superficial minstrations, Canada tucked the American closer into his chest before walking, nearly jogging, out the forest with the European following closely at his heels, hands intertwined.

* * *

Searching for and pulling out Canada's copy of the key, the nations stumbled into America's apartment. The Canadian stepped carefully over their suitcases -they had dropped them off while waiting for the American to call back- to place his twin up on the kitchen counter. Leaning him up against the cupboards, the Canadian unzipped America's heavy, water soaked jack, shrugging it off bony shoulders. He pulled off the snow boots and ended up dumping water, ice, and snow all over the wooden floor while France wiped towels soaked in burning water against the golden blonde's skin to warm him up. America was somewhat responsive with his eyes at half-mast when England announced he had found some heating pads and thick woolen blankets. Canada scooped his still soaked and boneless twin up and carried him to his bedroom with France following, wringing his hands fretfully.

Propping his southern twin against his headboard, America found the energy to hold his head up, watching the Canadian dig through his closet, his eyes flickering shut every few seconds. Extracting a long sleeved shirt and pajama pants from the mess that was the American's closet, Canada sat in front of his twin and attempted to pull his shirt off. Key word being attempted.

"No, Mattie," America wined, wrapping his arms around his torso to keep the shirt on. "I can't let them see me without clothes," he whispered, stealing a nervous glance over to the Europeans huddled in the doorway.

"Your clothes are wet; you need to change," Canada said softly but with an air of finality, similar to how one would speak to a small, irrational child. Putting more effort into yanking it off, the shirt made a ripping noise but still refused to be removed.

"No! They're the ones who made fun of me; I can't give them any _more_ ammo." America's exclamation made the Europeans wince in regret.

"Can you guys please leave?" Canada asked over his shoulder of France and England. "He won't change in front of you guys. I'm just going to lay with him until he warms up."

"Of course peitit frère. We will cook; well, I will cook and make sure Angleterre doesn't poison us," France said understandingly, guiding a slightly confused England out of the room. The Englishman was too focused on trying to understand America's discomfort to be upset about the Frenchman's none too subtle insult.

"Frog!" England hissed, as he was forced out of the room. "What was that about?"

"'ave you noticed 'ow thin Amerique was?" Continuing after a nod from the Englishman, he said, "Now think about what all of us nations 'ave told him in the past. The insults 'e 'as suffered."

"Oh lord... You don't really think that? He really wasn't fat; we were just having fun teasing him."

"Oui, mon amour, I do think that. I do not think he realized we did not mean the jokes," France sighed. "Will you 'elp me with dinner? Alfred enjoys your cooking, for whatever strange reason, so I will just keep you from burning down 'is apartment."

"Fine. But bloody hell, what the fuck are we going to do?"

"I do not know; not even good French cuisine will 'elp Amerique."

Canada pulled off America's shirt and pants, and even though his boxers were even a bit snow dampened, the Canadian couldn't bring himself to remove them, and the American definitely didn't have the energy to complain or do so himself.

Dressing America in thin pajama pants and a tee-shirt may seem counter productive, but if Canada was to lay with him, he didn't want any of the heat to go waste warming layers of clothing. Tugging his southern twin underneath the covers with him, the American immediately snuggled up to the comparatively warm body beside him.

Pulling them closer together, their bodies molded against each other the same way as their borders gripped each other. Well, not quite as fully, but that will come soon enough (*2).

* * *

Cold now.

Close to the edge. Almost

Unbearable. Clouds

Bunch up and boil down

From the north of the white bear.

In the season of snow

In the immeasurable cold,

We grow cruel but honest; we keep

Ourselves alive,

If we can, taking on after another

The necessary bodies of others, the many

Crushed red flowers.

-Cold Poem: Mary Oliver

* * *

*1 Reference to Napoleon Bonaparte's (completely) failed invasion of Russia in 1812. General Winter protects Russia after all. I mean come on! How dumb do you have to be to invade _Russia_ through the autumn and half the winter?!

*2 _Ohonhonhon! If you know what I mean *nudge, nudge, wink, wink*_ ...Did anyone else get what I met by that last sentence or am I too vague with my slightly inappropriate references? If you don't get it: get a map with the US- Canadian border marked, specifically the Great Lakes region, then tilt you head to the left, squint, and turn on your pervert brain (and yes, I know you have one).


	5. Wrong Mental Attitude

**A/N:** If the French is seriously basic and very commonly used, I'm just going to assume you know them. Also, when I say 'nation' I mean the personification, and when I say 'country' I mean the actual government, landmass, etc. (ex: nation= Alfred F. Jones, country= the United States of America)

* * *

"Petit frère, you cannot tell us zat nothing is wrong with America now," France stated, filling a pot with water as he did so.

"Quite right. Canada, what the bloody hell is happening?" England shockingly agreed, carefully poking at a chicken cooking on the stovetop as though expecting it to catch on fire at any time.

"N-nothing…" Canada stuttered, the hand slicing carrots and celery slipped, cutting a deep gash into his pointer finger. Scrambling to press a dishtowel into his hand, the Canadian threw open a few drawers before finding the Band-Aids.

"Lad, we found him passed out in the snow," the Brit said incredulously, enormous eyebrows nearly flying off his face like his precious faery friends. "And have you seen his news lately?"

"Of course," the Canadian said stiffly, not liking where this was going.

"Zen you know 'ow 'ard it is to get food in his country."

"It's not that bad yet," Canada said softly, dragging a small sack of potatoes out of the pantry.

"We know you know what is really going on. Please tell us," the Frenchman begged, fixing Canada with a pleading look.

"I-I can't tell you anything besides what the news says... Al will tell you when he's ready," the Canadian stated ambiguously.

Silencing England's further questioning with a squeeze of his hand and a shake of France's head, they dropped the subject. Generally speaking, the northern nation was a pushover, except when it came to his twin, whom he would fight to the death to protect.

"America should like zis food; he does love Arthur's cooking. I assume that is where 'e gets 'is bad taste from," France teased, attempting to make the conversation light.

"Shut it, frog," the Englishman snapped, waving the wooden spatula threateningly.

* * *

America jarred awake at the violent growl from within his stomach. His eyes still shut, the golden blonde just assumed his hungry people were dreaming of good food because a scent that tasty hadn't floated through his apartment in close to a year. _Mmmm, chicken and dumplings soup… My favorite. Best food dream so far_, America thought, rapidly running his tongue over his lips.

Rubbing roughly at his eyes, the golden blonde pulled himself to a sitting position, sheets pooling in his lap, as he reached for his glasses. Getting stiffly to his feet, the cold still somewhere deep in his bones, America wandered into his kitchen to get a cracker; he knew today –the rest of it anyways- was an eating day.

Tripping over a wayward snow boot, the American tumbled into his kitchen, landing sprawled out on the floor.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" the American ground out, slowly dragging himself to his feet and leaning against a wall, as his eyes jumped from the nations gathered in his kitchen to the food and back again.

"We are cooking, mon ami..." France said hesitantly, pushing England over to deal with the chicken himself.

"_Why_ would you do that?"

"... Because we thought you would be hungry, lad."

"Oui, America, you must eat."

"No!" America snapped, eyes blazing with anger unseen since the Cold War. "If you are just going to and try to shove food done my throat and destroy all the progress I've made then you can get the hell out!"

France and England stood stock still, stuck between wanting to lessen the irate American's anger and wanting to help. With a loud crack, America smashed the wall with his fist, and a hairline fracture appeared. Bedford his sickness, the wall would have been partially reduced to dust. "You heard me! Get the fuck out of my apartment!" At the noise and the receiving end of a unsubtle threat, the Europeans immediately departed, barely stopping to first retrieve their suitcases.

Sinking against the wall, America folded his legs to his chest, his unfocused gaze looking out into the living room.

"Al..." Canada said warningly, approaching his twin with a hand outstretched. Was that a gesture of comfort or the warding off of a possible attack?

"Just no, Mattie. I can't deal with this right now," the American said softly, his temper already receded. "They called me fat and stupid, and now that I'm getting better, they want me to go back to what I was before. Do they need a punching bag or something?"

Sliding down the wall next to America and scooting over to him, Canada pressed their sides together. "Have you ever thought," the Canadian started, trying desperately to be tactful. "That perhaps you moved into the opposite extreme? That you're becoming _too_ serious and _too_... thin?"

Pushing away from his northern twin, the southerner seemed to fold in on himself, making his shrinking frame appear even smaller.

* * *

Pressing the button to call the elevator to their floor, England and France stood in front of the shut elevator doors. Just as the elevator arrived with a ding, the Frenchman went to step inside, but was quickly pulled back into the hallways by the Briton.

"Francis... Am-Alfred isn't going to get any better. What's his name? M-something? Mark? Matthew! Matthew doesn't know what he's doing; he won't be able to help Alfred."

"And you think zat _we_ will be able to 'elp?" France said incredulously.

"I don't bloody know! At the very least, three heads are better than one," England decided, dragging the Frenchman back to America's apartment.

* * *

A loud banging rattled the American's door on it's hinges, and Canada pulled himself to his feet, opening the door. He was nearly knocked over when the Europeans attempted to push back into the apartment, but the Canadian barred the door at a pitiful whine from America.

"Lad," England growled, a protective –he'd be damned if it wasn't motherly- glint in his eyes. "We are talking about Alfred's problem. Let us the bloody hell in."

"Go away..." America whispered into his knees, fingers caging his eyes.

"You heard Al," Canada said definitively, filling the doorway with his relatively slender form. "Leave him alone."

"We need to talk, s'il vous plaît?" France begged.

"You've already hurt him so much! You'll just add to it, eh?"

"Mar-Matthew! He's too bad off; your 'help' isn't helping him anymore-if it ever did in the first place-"

"Sh-Shut up! I-I'm doing the best I can! It's just me trying to help because I'm the only one who worries... A-and you guys d-don't care!"

England pushed the shaking Canada back into the apartment by the shoulders, as France started to speak, "We have dealt with zis issue before. We can 'elp if you let us."

Kneeling beside America, the Frenchman gently stroked the American's prominent tendons in his neck. "Petit Amerique, does anything sound good to eat? I can make an absolutely delicious chicken soup."

"No, I'm _not_ going to eat. Why would I? There's nothing to make fun of..." America said quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

"If you do not, ton frère will 'ave to leave." At the threat, the southern twin's eyes darkened with equal parts mistrust and anger.

"He won't leave me; Mattie promised he wouldn't leave," America lightly snarled. Expression and tone suddenly changing, the American looked towards his twin, his eyes filled with fear. "You won't leave, right?"

"Of course not," Canada said softly, wrapping a protective arm around the American's shoulders and leveling an angry gaze at France.

Sighing heavily, England pulled his trump card: "Canada, hasn't your agriculture suffered lately?"

"...Yes..."

"And why's that?"

"A poor harvest, same as Al but not as bad."

"Is it my fault?" America asked of his northern twin, tugging at his sleeve.

"Maybe... I guess," the Canadian said hesitantly. "My crops were stunted this year. The farther from our border the farms were, the less they were affected, but my people still had a bad year."

That was like a punch in the stomach for the American. All he wanted to do was make himself better, something he was willing to do at his own risk, but dragging innocent Canada into this who only wanted to help him? That was unacceptable. America knew his actions could affect his own country; therefore, the fact it could hurt Canada as well, seeing as they were tied so closely together, made horrible sense.

Getting up with a hand braced against the wall, America went into the kitchen and peered into the soup pot. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

_Alfred_, Canada thought, as the Europeans smiled quickly at each other. _Doesn't want to get better for the right reason. As terrible as this is, he hasn't realized its rock bottom yet, and until he does, nothing is going to stay fixed._

* * *

Nothing can stop the man with the right mental attitude from achieving his goal; nothing on earth can help the man with the wrong mental attitude.

-Thomas Jefferson


	6. The Thing With Feathers

_**A/N:**_ One more chapter after this...

Also, is it terrible of me to say I snack while writing this story? :)**  
**

* * *

A few days later, America found himself lying on his bed stroking his stomach but notably less proud than before. The American barely gained any weight, only a pound at most, but he could _feel_ the imaginary fat. America felt like he nearly waddled now and that there were chunks of fat clogging the blood and oozing sluggishly through his veins. Sometimes when he was filled with too much disgust to ignore, the golden blonde would have to force whatever was in his stomach _out_.

Every now and then, Canada would find his southern twin kneeing in front of the toilet, acid burning the American's throat. The Canadian nearly cried when he saw that, but he always held in it and keeps it together for America's sake. If the American saw the tears that rolled down his northern twin's face, the southern twin would start keeping it hidden from the Canadian. If America is to get better -though Canada has no hope for his twin's long-term health in the current situation- he has to continue telling the Canadian what's going on.

Canada was continually shocked at how ignorant of the situation France and England were. They appeared completely unaware of the damages their so-called 'healing' inflicted on the already fragile psyche of the American. After only a few days of their ministrations, America seemed about to fall apart at the seams. Debilitating shivers ran through his body almost constantly, and the Canadian sometimes had to feed the American since the southern twin couldn't hold his own utensil.

Feeling so helpless and useless, America's shoulders shook as though crying, but no drops ran down his face. Canada couldn't bear to see such repressed pain in his twin's- his love's- eyes, so he always wrapped the southerner in a tight embrace, pressing sweet kisses into soft locks.

In the middle of the night before the conference, the door to Canada's room creaked open, rusty hinges moving laboriously. The Canadian snapped into an upright position, armed with his hockey stick; a generally unnecessary precaution but one he illogically felt was needed if he was asleep with France in the vicinity. Eyes locked on the blackened figure outlined by the pale moonlight shining from the hallway, Canada instantly relaxed, knowing it was America since the shape was far too slight to be anyone else.

Putting the hockey stick away and laying down again, the Canadian pulled back the covers in a silent invitation for the American to crawl into bed with him. Getting gingerly in between the covers, America tugged his twin right next to him, his breath whistling through the northern twin's hair.

"I know this hasn't been easy for you, but I swear to fucking god I'm going to get better. Heroes can't hurt people they care about," the southerner whispered, big blue eyes shining with tears.

The Canadian knew that he still didn't want to get better for the right reason, but _maybe_ this would be enough. He prayed to a god he wasn't sure he believed in that it was enough, and the northerner fell asleep thinking of every deity he'd ever heard of and hoping one was listening.

* * *

At the annoying ring of the alarm clock, America attempted to crush it under his withering strength. The clock only made a faint cracking sound, as it quieted. Eyes still closed, the American reached his hand out towards the nearest heat source. As his fingers brushed soft skin,his twin tugged him in closer, the northerner's arms and legs wrapping around the southerner as though clutching a teddy bear.

Violet and blue eyes fluttering open as if in sync, the twins' lips were only a hair's width apart. They'd never actually kissed each other except when comforting and only admitted to brotherly affection, though they both prayed the other felt something more. Canada let out a quick, nervous puff of air, as America closed the distance between them in a soft kiss. Tightening his grip on the American ever so slightly, the Canadian returned the affection wholeheartedly.

"I know it doesn't seem like I care cause of how everything I'm doing is affecting you, but I really do lov- am wild about you," America whispered, his hollow cheeks covered with a heavy blush at his sudden word change. He wasn't ready to say love; how could he try to force himself on Canada when he was so undeserving of his northern twin?

"I know, and je t'aime."

"How can you say that?" The American said in a barely audible voice. "I'm so unworthy of you; you could do so much better. ("No, I couldn't," the Canadian said seriously, shaking America slightly, but the southerner paid him no heed.) You deserve someone who isn't as sic- selfish and stupid as me."

"No!" the Canadian mildly snapped, silencing him. "You aren't stupid or selfish."

"But people always say that to me. Aren't they right?" he asked, again sounding like a scared, overly trusting child.

"It doesn't matter because I'll stand by you; I promise," the other returned, kissing his twin before nudging him to his feet. "Let's get ready; the meeting's soon."

* * *

Pulling themselves out of bed long before the North American's alarm turned off, France and England quietly prepared for the meeting. They snuck out the door with only a quiet click to signal their departure.

Stepping out onto the street and into the pouring rain, the Europeans started off towards the nearby hotel where the conference was being held. As the bickering couple consulted the vague and infrequent signs that were _supposed_ to lead them to the hotel. England was about three seconds from breaking out his cape and cursing the hell out of whoever made these damn signs before they found their destination.

When they arrived at the conference room, the other nations were milling around in small groups, happily -or stoically- greeting old friends and allies, and shooting heated glares at enemies of recent years and times long past. As the meeting's start time drew near, the nations found their seats, pleasantly surprised that America's seating arrangement put everyone next to nations they liked. Normally the American didn't bother to give the seating chart much thought, and if he did, he arranged everyone in ways that would ensure that fights would break out for 'shits and giggles'. England wished that America still had that tricky spirit that filled the other nations with concern. He wished that over 400 years of immaturity hadn't disappeared in the space of one painful year. (*1)

Even with their alarms accidentally set late, the North American twins managed to make it to the meeting on time. They came in with Canada's arm around America's waist, and the southerner's arms draped over the northerner's shoulders. The twins tried to hide the American's physical reliance on the Canadian by affectionate behavior of kind kisses, warm words, and soft smiles. But a few attentive nations might have noticed how heavily America leaned on his twin and how Canadia's muscles strained as though supporting extra weight. But even the least watchful of nations noticed that the northern twin dropped the southerner off at his seat before sitting down himself, and how unsteady the southern twin appeared on his feet as he stood by himself, but none of them cared to figure out what the North American twins' unusual actions signified.

Announcing the start of the meeting in a quiet voice that cracked every so often, the American collapsed into his chair with a relieved sigh. Most nations accepted this new, calmer -or was it listless?- America with open arms and chalked up the breaking voice to his still teenaged body.

Soon after the start of the meeting, the numerous complaints and annoyed requests directed at the American began:

_Get you soldiers out of my country! You are not doing any good!_

_The oil from the spill in Alaska is wrecking havoc on a piece of my extensive coastline. My government expects recompense for the damages._

"I'm working on it... Please stop nagging me..." America groaned, rubbing his eyes and their attendant bags with the heels of his hands. His bright blue eyes squeezed shut, trying to re-focus his hazy mind. Getting shakily to his feet, he attempted to be heard over the loud, accusatory voices. "Guys!"

_Where's my money, aru! You're debts only getting larger._

_When are you giving me those weapon plans? You promised them to my boss over a month ago!_

"I swear, I'm trying," the American said, voice dropping in volume. "It'll be done soon; I'll fulfill all my promises." The edge of his vision began to blur before everything turned black and white. A pure black formed on the peripherals that slowly expanded into the center of his vision that would have sent America into a panic if he had the energy to do so. When the world was naught but a pinprick, everything pitched suddenly, as the American fell to the ground, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

If one believed meetings were crazy before, this one descended into pure insanity at the American's collapse.

"Is America okay, aru?"

"Oh my god! Is he like dead or something?"

"Everyone calm down!" Germany yelled, attempting to wrest control over the meeting, as Italy sobbed into his chest, blubbering about a funeral. Oddly enough, everyone jumped up, but nobody went to help America. Sure, his foreign relations had gone largely to shit over the years, and these past several months of isolation hasn't helped, but other nations still cared about that North American twin, right?

It truly seemed that nobody cared, except for Canada. He pulled the American into his lap and propped the southerner's head on his shoulder. Shaking him slightly, the Canadian attempted to rouse his twin but without success. Scooping America up into his arms, Canada left the conference room, saying "I'm taking him back home," but only the few nations close to the twins heard the 'ghostly' nation speak, and none followed the twins out of the room. France and England would have followed, if not for a glare from the Canadian. He'd given them a chance to help, but since they had only made things worse, America's sickness became a family-only problem; a title the two Europeans had lost a long time ago.

His body bobbing and swaying in time with the Canadian's steps, America slowly awoke, his eyes opening as tiny slits. Standing at the elevator, the northern twin struggled, attempting to hit the down button with his elbow.

"Mattie..." his southern twin groaned, making him jump, and the American's head flop uncomfortably. "I hate being so weak. I need to get better, don't I?"

"Yeah, Al, you do," Canada agreed quietly, stepping into the elevator.

"Help me?" America asked, weakly looping his arms around his twin's neck.

"The answer's always going to be yes. I'm here for you," the Canadian said with a slight curve to his lips, allowing a small about of hope to enter his voice.

"Always and forever?" The twins felt the floor drop out from under them, as the elevator hurtled down.

"Always and forever."

As they went out onto the streets, the clouds had parted, and the white marble buildings shone brightly, sparkling in the sun.

* * *

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune-without the words,  
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;  
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;  
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me.

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

*1 Jamestown was founded in 1607, which is over 400 years ago. I'm not getting into specifics, so just take the fact and the head-cannon (for the purpose of this story) at face value, or ignore it completely if it bugs you.


	7. Final: A Short Sigh

One year.

It's been one year since anyone besides Canada had seen the southern twin. One year since he's left their secluded continent. One year since the Canadian, standing in for his twin at conferences, began to be seen. One year since America finally realized he had to get better for his own sake. One year since the other nations felt the death grip the American had on power slowly relax, his tentacles of control relinquishing their hold; he never lost his title of superpower, never fell like the empires of old, but more like he gently floated partway down from his pedestal.

And now he's coming back.

If anything, Canada's more nervous about his twin's first world conference than America is. Something about this past year instilled some sort of calm within the American. Perhaps being so weak for so long has contained his previously inexhaustible energy, or perhaps America has just finally matured, watching the world go by and reminiscing about past strength and good times, like an elderly man living out his twilight years, would do that to you.

Whenever his mind drifts towards thoughts of the conference, the voice in his head that hurt him so much_ -Starve! American fat ass; you're obesity rates went up again. Purge! Nobody's going to love or respect you with that fat dripping from your body. Starve!-_ would awake again to torment America, telling him he had to keep the other nations from seeing all his faults. It was a battle he used to think he'd never win, but now he could crush it with ease. All he had to do was follow the scritchy-scratch of Canada's pen, the sizzle of him cooking, the musical lilt of his soft voice. The Canadian's thoughtful violet eyes would meet his twin's (became even though they're now lovers, they would always be brothers first), and he would immediately know of America's worries, even if his southern twin was somewhat unaware. All the American knew is that he felt nauseous, meaning he felt some negative emotion he couldn't quite put his finger on. But it was easy for Canada and Canada alone to quell America's fears. A gentle arm around his sometimes strengthened body, slightly cool skin to lean against, or a soothing word and a kiss was all America needed to send a crushing defeat to the voice in his head, returning it the recesses of his mind and keeping his sanity intact.

But sometimes, his twin, his safety net had to go home; he did have a country to represent after all. And America's fridge would become empty, his throat would sometimes burn and bleed, and he would loose a pound or two or seven. Though the moment he heard Canada was coming to stay again, the American would dash to the grocery store, stockpiling food in his home, so it appeared he was never without, and he would struggle to gain back _just_ enough weight where the Canadian wouldn't think to worry, wouldn't think to ask.

Because Canada wouldn't notice, couldn't notice something that the American was so careful to hide. (Don't listen to what those cruel nations say because America was smart, he really was!) But perhaps late at night or early in the morning or in the middle of the day when their borders melded, when the noise of their lovemaking filled the air with a beautiful cacophony of moans, groans, and cries, Canada _would_ notice bones sticking out of his twin's body that shouldn't. As he stroked America's face, he thought that maybe the southerner's cheeks _were_ slightly sunken. Those thoughts were only fleeting, as the couple drifted off into post-coital bliss, and later the American would be dressed in enough clothing to hide his thinness, so the Canadian would forget to ask. How ironic; now Canada's doing the forgetting

_The hardest part_, America thought to himself, sitting alone on a small porch attached to his bedroom, watching the stars twinkle coldly, _is the wishing. Wishing that things never got bad. _He flexed his hand. Canada had been gone a long time; it was just tendons and bone now._ Wishing that I need him so damn bad._ He slowly exhaled, the cigarette smoke swirling into the sky; a quiet, sad sound came from his throat and intermixed with crisp night air.

The phone rang; picking it up, the American heard the Canadian's sweet voice dancing through the speaker.

"My boss gave me time off before the conference; I can come down and fly out with you, if you want me that is."

America's wan smile was caught between heartbreaking joy and crushing despair. "I can't wait to see you."

_I'm not getting better, am I?_

* * *

It's such a little thing to weep,

So short a thing to sigh,

And you by trades the sighs of these

We men and women die.

-Emily Dickinson

* * *

Well, damn. I'm going to be honest with you folks. This was a really hard story for me to write; I didn't know where the hell it was going after the first two chapters (not including the intro), and I seriously didn't know how the fuck I was going to end it. But the important thing is I like how it ends, and I hope every who faithfully read this from the beginning to those just reading it now finds the ending satisfactory. (Maybe, if someone has an ending suggestion, and I'm feeling super nice, I'll write an alternate ending. Even if you're reading this long after I post this chapter and you have an ending idea, just pm me.)

I personally find it annoying when authors list every person who reviewed, favorited, followed, or whatever, but just know that every time one popped up in my inbox, it made me like seriously happy :) And I'm very thankful for every review singing praise or criticism because they give me inspiration and renewed work ethic and make me a better author.

Thank you everyone who read this piece of work! I don't know when I will be back because I'm half working on several story ideas, but you'll see me eventually :)

**-Hazel**

P.S. This story is at its end, if anyone was confused.


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